To Say Goodbye
by The Omniscient Bookseller
Summary: Charles E. Thompson, Assistant Executive Manager of Coleman’s Co., wondered why he had come. (Happy birthday, Keza!)


Charles E. Thompson, Assistant Executive Manager of Coleman's Co., wondered why he had come. There was nothing for him here except for memories he was forever trying to forget. The sky is heavy and colorless over the clutter of alleys and poorly made, rarely used buildings. He laughs a little. Ah, New York. Home sweet home. It never really was sweet, and is no longer home, but it is a nice phrase. 

            He smiled to himself, looking inward and letting his body remember the paths. He thought back to the wonderful visit he was enjoying on the pretense of a business trip. The last few days had been delightful. He had spent the majority of his time playing with Joey, his coworker's six-year-old son. It is only at night that he let himself mourns for how alone he is.

            The city was deserted and silent in the close, wet February air. He slowed as he rounds the last familiar corner, suddenly not wanting to see the ruins of his old home. The one he was looking for will not be found here, no more than his own youth would be. 

            The building was smaller than he remembered, dirty and tired-looking. The white paint had all but worn off the sign. Spider webs laced across the narrow opening provided more of a door than there ever was in his time. Dust and crumbled bricks mixed with the last of the winter's snow and the month's perpetual rain coated everything with a thin, gritty layer of sludge. He stopped in the square. In all his memories it was so much more impressive. It took him a minute to figure out what had changed: this crumbling, reminiscent building was no longer home.

            "Pie Eater."

            He started. A girl he hadn't noticed was sitting on the crooked, narrow stairs. She seemed to fade into her surroundings. Her face was pale under its layer of dirt and stains. Her hair hung unevenly down her back, more brown than he remembered, probably because of a lack of the washing he had become so accustomed to. She was slight and fragile looking in the way of someone who has gone to bed hungry every day of their life. Her staring eyes provided the only color in her face. It looked to him as though she had been sitting there indefinitely, just waiting for him. The tableau reminded him of a painting done entirely in shades of beige and gray.

            He shuffled his feet and looked away from her gaze.

            "It's Charles now, Keza."

            "No, no it isn't. Not here." Her voice hadn't changed at all. He found himself remembering the last time they had spoken. He remembered how he stumbled over his broken explanation (_Well, see, somethin' happened, and well…I mean, it's not about you, it really isn't! You gotta believe me. It's just that…see…)_, remembered her wild screaming (_I wasn't good enough for you, was that it? It was just a fling, you just wanted to have some fun. You never meant any of those things you said! How could you…?!)_, most of all remembered the tears in her flashing eyes. He wondered what had happened in these years to change her so much.

            "Look, it's all right," she said suddenly, "It was a long time ago. We were just kids. And you really were happy." 

            He laughed a little out of relief, wondering at the fact that he still needed forgiveness. For a moment, he dared to meet her eyes. She was still staring at him, sadly, and he wondered if she was telling the truth.

            She stood and walked over to him slowly. The skirt she wore was worn and too short, faded to the color of dust. Her feet were bare. She had grown, standing nearly eye level with him, but still seemed small. Wordlessly, she took his hand in hers. It was delicate and cold. He felt as though he might break her if he held on too hard.

            She led him through the silent city, through cluttered alleys and broken streets. They circled an old house with boarded windows to a tiny clutter of stones and damp earth in the back. In the middle stood a stooped, stunted tree. She let go to touch its bark.

            "He's here."

            Charles stared at the tree. It was gray, weathered and gray, its branches spindly and bare. It looked as though it had never seen a summer, only the dreary lifeless fog. He stepped closer, peering at the place her hand had brushed. It bore a crude inscription, scratched with someone's penknife and forgotten as the seasons turned.

KB 

_1901_

            He traced the letters with his fingertips, overwhelmed. He stepped back and nearly tripped. Turning, he saw that a small wooden box had been placed behind his left heel. He picked it up reverently, fiddled with the simple latch, slid back the top, and lifted out its contents. An eye patch hung from his fingers, the fabric fraying and worn as the colorless city around him. He looked at it, motionless, until his vision began to blur. Then he carefully placed it back in the box, swiped his sleeve across his eyes, and began to kick the loose stones out of his way. They made angry, dirty scratches across his newly polished shoes, but he didn't care. His hands, finally rid of their ink stains, were coated with dirt by the time he had finished digging. 

            The box looked tiny inside the sloping hole. He filled it with an avalanche of stones and earth and stood back, not knowing what to do. This was what he had come for. To say goodbye.

            Suddenly, he was filled with a longing for his old life. He wanted to go back to the Lodging House, wanted to go inside it, to find his old bunk, maybe Jack's, maybe the washroom, maybe find some overlooked relic of _him_. He turned, remembering the girl who had brought him here, but he was alone with the lifeless city and the rising fog. 

            He tried to go back, but he couldn't find his way through the maze of streets. 

            He returned from his trip that evening, without ever having gotten home


End file.
